The Woman in the Boat
by BMeph
Summary: Post-Hoggy; Tracey Davis goes out to see an old friend, and in a way, gives as good as she gets. Disclaimer: I'm not Jo Rowling, who is the owner of Harry, and all things Potter. Rated T for suggestive language, since I'm a paranoid pervert.


The Woman in the Boat – A Harry Potter fanfiction story

Tracey Davis entered the shop, and paused to examine the inside. The interior was well lit from the huge single pane of glass taking up the southern wall, and the more modest four-pane windows on the sides. On those walls, and on the large interior wall towards the back, were many kinds of boats, in three general styles, each in its own tasteful glass bottle. Particular details about the crafts were written on hand-sized cards, hung by a string tied in a simple, tasteful bow around the cork in each bottle's neck. There was a collection of faint scents permeating the shop, almost unnoticed, until one stopped to identify them: warmed candle tallow, cedar sawdust, and a hint of briny sea salt. Nodding in approval, she approached the counter in front of the wall, to be met by a store helper who "just happened" to enter from behind a deep green curtain in the center of the wall.

Since she wanted more than to purchase one of the boats, she got right to her point: "Hello, I am Tracey Davis," she introduced herself, "and I would like to speak with the owner."

"I would be happy to assist you, …Miss… Davis," the assistant correctly deduced, continuing, "however, the owner is seldomly on-site. The chief artisan is a member of the family, though, and is of course, authorized to speak for–"

"Yes, yes, that's who I meant," Tracey interrupted. Sometimes, Tracey hated the intricacies of social interactions demanded by purebloods, most usually when she wasn't dealing with another one personally, and so couldn't expect to be able to "cut to the chase" and bloody get _on_ with it. Shaking her head, she schooled herself; keeping up appearances helped everyone to know the proper thing to do, which, after all, was more of a concern to those who were patronized by the upper classes. "Please inform the–"

"For Merlin's sake, Rory, get out of Tracey's way and send her back already!"

Holding a hand up before her to pretend to hide her impulsive giggle, she waved her forgiveness to the shop functionary, with a nod of thanks, passed through the separator and behind the curtain. Beyond, was a workspace that was distinctly busier, noisier, and larger, than the quiet showroom-type atmosphere behind her. Overseeing and directing the all-but chaos, wand held up like a conductor's baton, was her friend, former school- and house-mate, and no matter what that toady was trying to imply, the "real" owner of the establishment, Millicent Bulstrode.

"Hello, Millie, I _thought_ I detected your touches in that shop," Tracey began her greeting, taking her friend's hands in hers, before eschewing the whole mess for a genuine hug. "Yeah, maybe here and there," Millicent replied, sounding uncharacteristically – yet adorably – bashful. "Just making sure the wares have – excuse me," she interrupted herself, as something one of the workers was doing caught her eye. "Oi, Geoffrey! It's done with shaping, just polish it up! You carve into _it_, and I'll carve into _you_…."Then, turning to the man she was speaking with earlier, even though he was now talking to someone else, she admonished, "Jamie, keep an eye on Geoff, there; he's itching to whittle away our good touches, before he even knows why they're there. Maybe he needs to start his journeyman training…." She then waited until "Jamie" acknowledged her orders, finished speaking to the other man, and got someone to watch over "Geoffrey," before gathering Tracey up in an arm like a package and heading over to a small store room behind a solid wooden door.

"Sorry about that, Tracey," Millicent said, once they were behind the sturdy door and the bustle of the real shop muted to a dull roar. "Some wizards think they're Merlin reborn as a carpenter, forgetting even Merlin took a lesson now and then. So," she concluded, putting her wand away and motioning to a pair of chairs in a corner, "is this a business call, social, or what?"

"It's kind-of business," Tracey started, "but we can cover that in time. In the meanwhile, look at you, it's been, what, three years since we've seen each other, and I can say – apparently, boat-making agrees with you." In fact, as Tracey took the time to both look over her friend and recall the interaction she stepped in the middle of, boat-making had done Millie fantastically well. Perhaps, even…too well?

"It does, doesn't it? What can I say; our family has always been into magical transport – sometimes I wonder if one of my ancestors actually helped with the ban on flying carpets, just to recoup the loss on them when brooms got popular, by trading the last delivery on the black market. Anyway, one of my dad's cousins was looking to get out of the business; he thought it still had potential, I convinced him there could be more potential, and he spotted me a stake. By last year, the profits from going bespoke, combined with the odd upsurge in sport rowing and those funny Inuit toothpick boats – kayaks, they're called – let me buy him out early. In two years, I expect to replenish the funds I used with the profits to buy out the shares, just in time, it seems, since rumor has it that London will be playing host to those muggle sporting gatherings… _Olympics_ I think they're called, in 2012. With the experience we have with those kayak things, we'll be pulling in Galleons faster than the goblins can count them. Plus, I can't believe just how much _fun_ it is!" Millie's cheeks gained a fetching rosy glow, and her eyes a sparkle.

They continued to chat on about what had happened in their lives (Tracey had spent a short stint in the Ministry, but was now engaged to a fellow student from Hogwarts, a Ravenclaw named Anthony Goldstein, and working as a junior curator of a private library belonging to one of "Anthy's" many relatives), until one of the men – Jamie – burst in and asked about them. It seems time had gotten away from them, and it was already approaching two o'clock. It seems _Jamie_ was concerned that his boss – Millie gave Tracey a big nudge to the ribs at that – might faint away from hunger, and make him lose time moving her unconscious body to St. Mungo's. Millicent snorted, and shaking her head, got up, and waited for Tracey to join her before they left by another door, that – magically, of course – let the two out behind the much-bigger-on-the-inside building.

Letting her hair loose from the ponytail, bending over and giving it a good shake for half a minute, then straightening up and using her wand for a quick brush, Millicent pointed Tracey to a sidewalk, and eventually, a café. It was there, after finishing up their catching up, and lunch, that Tracey let her curiosity have its head.

"So, Millie," Tracey tried to broach the subject casually, "is there anyone in your life?"

"What, you mean like a boyfriend? Not bloody likely; I'm following my Plan, and thank Merlin, Dad has plenty of other children to "do the right thing for Wizarddom and family" – I fear that even with our commercial success, it would still bankrupt us to get someone to agree to an 'arrangement' with the likes of me, and with my looks, it's not like I have to beat 'em off with a stick; more like beat 'em to make 'em stay."

"Um," Tracey stalled, still putting together that her friend's ideas of self-worth may have improved since she was fifteen, but for some reason, her opinions on her looks hadn't followed suit. "this might come as a surprise to you, Millie, but…let me ask, have you, you know, 'had work done'?"

"'Work done' on _what_, exactly?"

"Er, on you, I mean. I can't help but notice, especially since it's been such a while since we've seen each other, but you don't look like you did at eighteen, any more. It's subtle, but it's very effective."

"What in the world are you even talking about?"

"Well, how to say this," Tracey delayed, getting her thoughts in order, and her observations with them. "Okay, now, you've always had a…call it a sturdy build–"

"You mean a fattie," Millicent countered.

"No – Merlin, no – Millie, not even so. Admittedly, maybe in your first couple of years, you were a bit," Tracey blushed a bit and examined the lace patterns of the table cloth between them, "_heavy_, since then, you've grow into your body, it that even makes sense. Lately, though, whether it's the extra confidence, or just doing something you appreciate, you're not bad-looking, Millie. In fact, that shift you have on is rather fetching," Tracey finished, pointing to the pewter-gray work apron that she had on over her forest green cotton velvet dress. It did look good on her; she would always be a huge, intimidating Amazon of a witch, but sometime in the past three years, Millicent's body had…distributed itself more artfully. Not to mention, the Hogwarts uniform seemed almost perfectly designed to be as unflattering to Millicent's form as possible. "I was just wondering if you'd, you know, had some of the edges smoothed up, so-to-speak? I wouldn't turn down a recommend, if you're willing, what with the upcoming wedding, and all."

For a moment, Millicent's face was at still and hard as stone. Then, like the trickle of pebbles that triggers an avalanche, a snarky smirk crept onto her lips and into her eyes. "You…you want beauty tips, from… me?" Millie was incredulous and wondering what Tracey was trying to accomplish, but the way she had introduced the subject just fit together in a way that was typical Tracey, and that suggested that how Tracey had asked was sincere, solicitous, even. "Sorry, Tracey, but that doesn't make sense to me – even if, as you say, it 'crept up on me,' I'd have seen some signs of it."

"Here," Tracey hurriedly remarked, finishing her tea and leaving some Galleons for the snack, she grabbed her friend's arm and back-tracked to a clothes shop with a mirror in the display, artfully arranged (and bespelled) to encourage window shopping, and full-blown shopping. Standing in front of her, Tracey had Millicent take a good look at herself; not to pick out flaws, or any other disparaging acts, but to take a simple, honest assessment. Surprisingly, she discovered that when momentarily distracted into a true assessment, that she didn't look that bad. Not, say, like one of the Greengrass girls, but good – attractive, in a striking way. It helped when she smiled, even if it barely left her eyes; there was some subtle shift when she did that told folks she knew something that they would want to know, and thus she was someone that they would want to know.

Her body was also a pleasant surprise for her to look at for the first time without a horrid buff blouse or plaid skirt. What were the words Tracey had used: intimidating Amazon – Millie liked it, although it reminded her that a couple of the boys – and one of the girls, for that matter – had come to a similar conclusion far earlier than she had. She met her friend's eyes in the mirror, and gave a swift nod – then having another bit of insight, she pulled the lavender ribbon from Tracey's hair, threw a few charms at it, and did some artful rearranging. One of the duplicates went back in her hair, but gathering it at her forehead and behind her ears, giving it a better fan-out at the shoulders. Then, the other one, now four times as wide and twice as long, she tied in a pretty bow at the bottom of Tracey's rib cage, for what any muggle girl would recognize as an empire style.

Swapping places, Millie gave Tracey a small, gentle nudge with an elbow, a tiny hint of a smile on her lips – but her eyes positively beaming with pride. "There's your answer, Tracey – do what you love, and love what you do…and dress accordingly."

Tracey smirked, shaking her head at her now energized friend. "Well, I suppose that solves that issue." Quick as a flash, Millie put on her Sales Witch face: "Ah, yes, you did say that you were in the market for something…floaty?" Millie smirked sassily, and Tracey was glad – it looked good on her, and maybe…just maybe…someone else could see how good it looked. Tracey took ahold of her friend's arm as they returned to the shop – the non-noisy part – and talked turkey about some coracles.

Three days later, Daphne Greengrass came in, to talk about a woman in a boat….


End file.
